


this past was waiting for me

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Childbirth, F/M, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-28 00:22:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2712122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon remembers this part. The squalling, the fussing, the tiny wriggling creature that, despite being red-faced and squashed up like kneaded bread dough, somehow manages to be beautiful. He was never present for the births of his younger siblings – his cousins, really, though no matter what his relation to Sansa had become, Arya and Bran and Rickon would never be anything but brother and sister to him – so he’d had only a small idea of the reality of the birthing bed and all its attendant blood and labor and pain, and less idea still of how much more keenly that pain could strike his heart when it was someone he loved straining to bring life into the world. But this. The round, unfocused eyes that seem to be all pupil and iris with no white, the whorl of black hair already drying into a silken fluff, the tiny pink fingers that wrap around his thumb with a surprisingly strong grip… This he remembers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this past was waiting for me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [just_a_dram](https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_a_dram/gifts).



> Written as a celebratory fic for the birth of just_a_dram's wee Dramlet.

Jon remembers this part. The squalling, the fussing, the tiny wriggling creature that, despite being red-faced and squashed up like kneaded bread dough, somehow manages to be beautiful. He was never present for the births of his younger siblings – his cousins, really, though no matter what his relation to Sansa had become, Arya and Bran and Rickon would never be anything but brother and sister to him – so he’d had only a small idea of the reality of the birthing bed and all its attendant blood and labor and pain, and less idea still of how much more keenly that pain could strike his heart when it was someone he loved straining to bring life into the world. But this. The round, unfocused eyes that seem to be all pupil and iris with no white, the whorl of black hair already drying into a silken fluff, the tiny pink fingers that wrap around his thumb with a surprisingly strong grip… This he remembers.

Sansa drifts in and out of sleep beside him. The first time she’d dropped off mid-sentence, Jon sat up in alarm, the babe cradled against his crooked knees sucking in a shocked gasp before beginning a lusty howl that made Ghost flatten his ears and rouse himself from his place on the hearth to slink out the bedchamber door and seek quieter refuge.

Sam had raised a hand even before Jon could demand his attention, pushing it against the air as if urging Jon to sit back against the bedstead once more. His cheeks were still red with the exertion of assisting Sansa with the birth and the afterbirth and Jon could tell that he had little patience for the panicked anxiety of the father who had done none of the work. 

“She’s fine, Jon,” Sam told him. “Just exhausted. And wouldn’t you be?”

“I’d be dead,” Jon said. “I could never have done that.”

“Too right,” had come Sansa’s sleepy voice, her knuckles nudging weakly at his ankle. He’d spared one hand to circle her wrist and squeeze it, three times – three times to tell her of his love for her – before returning both hands to the swaddled babe that still fussed in his lap.

She’s quieted now. Soon she’ll rouse herself with small cries and whimpers, wanting what only Sansa can provide, but for now Jon holds her, only half to let Sansa rest. The rest of him thinks he might never let her out of his grasp. His daughter. He’d wanted such a thing for so long, and then not allowed himself to want it for what seemed like even longer. Now that she’s here, he doesn’t even feel like himself anymore. He’s some new person, a man whose heart has no more room for loneliness. Perhaps a man who is finally who and what he was meant to be.

“What shall we name her?” Sansa asks. It is only when he looks up from his daughter’s sleeping form that he realizes Sam has gone and he’s alone in the room with Sansa and their daughter, only the crackling fire in the hearth to keep them company. The soft, warm light erases the creases under Sansa’s eyes, washing the effort of the last several hours from her face and leaving her looking like the Maiden. The still exhausted Maiden, but the Maiden nonetheless.

“You’re the one who did all the work,” he says. “What do you think?”

“Jonquil,” Sansa says immediately, betraying herself when her cheeks dimple and feathery lines bracket the corners of her eyes. Jon laughs, soft and low, not wanting to disturb the babe so tiny that her body doesn’t even stretch from his hips to his knees.

“I know you just said that to get a rise out of me,” he says, “but I rather like it.”

Sansa smiles up at him. The smile changes to a grimace when she pushes herself up first by her elbows and then by her hands to sit against the bedstead with her shoulder pressed to his arm. He can smell the sweat of her labor in her own hair when she leans over him to ghost gentle fingers over the downy hair atop their daughter’s head, but beneath it she still smells of lavender and soap and Sansa. He presses a kiss to the part of her hair, a deep sense of contentment settling so heavy in his bones that he feels more tethered to the ground than he was before.

“We can name her Lya, for your mother,” Sansa suggests, “and you can call her Jonquil. Your special name for her.” Jon’s heart gives a lurch in his chest that’s nearly painful.

“I like that,” he says, willing his voice not to crack and betray him. Sansa presses her cheek to his shoulder, and for a while they only watch their sleeping daughter.”Of course,” Jon says at length, “We could also just have another and name _her_ Jonquil. Or perhaps the third. Or even the tenth.”

“Tenth!” Sansa moans in quiet dismay. “I’ll be pregnant forever.” Jon nods, his cheek rubbing over her hair.

“We’d better get started soon,” he says. Sansa laughs, the sound rousing the babe – rousing Lya – who begins to fuss and squirm, her mouth working furiously. Easily, as if she hadn’t labored past the point of exhaustion less than two hours ago, Sansa plucks Lya from his lap and settles the babe against her chest, her fingers pulling at the loose bow at the neck of her shift.

“You’ll have to give me a few hours, clearly,” Sansa says drily. Jon watches them as Sansa coaxes Lya to take her teat, murmuring soothing nonsense to her as they both learn how this feeding business works, though not without further squalls or fits each time Lya loses her hold and can’t seem to latch back on. Sansa laughs again, looking almost sheepish. “I suppose it’s not as easy as mother made it seem. You may have to give me a few days.”

Jon leans over to kiss her, palming Lya’s head against her breast with one hand as he tries to put everything he feels, even the things he doesn’t fully grasp yet, into the touch of his lips.

“I’ve got all the time in the world,” he says against Sansa’s lips, and he feels her smile against him.


End file.
